Anjana Sreedhar's blog

The articles and musings of a political news junkie

When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.

Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”

When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.

Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”

I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.

She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”

“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”

He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”

Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”

When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”

Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”

Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.

He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.

Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.

Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.

One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.

I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”

Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.

It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.

It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.

It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.

There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.

I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.

By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

EVERYBODY READ THIS. RIGHT NOW.

(via miriamforster)

Don’t forget the fear. Anger is easier than fear.

(via delilahsdawson)

What’s Missing from the Amy Chua Conversation

generasian:

If you’re like me, you’re sick of hearing about Amy Chua and the uproar over her latest book, The Triple Package: How Three Unlikely Traits Explain the Rise and Fall of Cultural Groups in America. Since catching wind of the premise of the book, which deploys outdated understandings of cultural determinism to argue that cultural characteristics are responsible for the success of certain groups in America, the blogosphere has (rightfully) erupted in outrage, publishing a multitude of pieces lambasting Chua’s thesis and its racial and ethnocentric implications.

I get it—Chua’s argument is flawed, poorly researched, and fails to grasp how structural inequality and institutional racism impact upward mobility (and lack thereof) in the United States. But something is missing from the conversation: a discussion of Chua’s role in supporting American structures of racism that depend on a distinction between model minorities and problem minorities. What’s more, criticisms have failed to link Chua’s rhetoric to the larger history of Asian Americans being used to perpetuate (and at times themselves participating in) anti-Black and anti-Latino racism. 

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Arexis Fongman: A Case Study on Casual Racism

generasian:

Update as of Jan 25, circa 2am: Alexis Fishman has issued an apology via Twitter stating that she ‘never intended offense’ and that her page was a ‘poor attempt at parody’. Though she is missing the point a bit as to why her profile was problematic in the first place and sticks to her story that it was parody, her regret does seem genuine. In any case, it seems she is feeling the full consequence of her actions now. Hopefully the lesson is learned not just by her, but by her fans and others like her. 

First and foremost, thanks to Wall Street Journal columnist Jeff Yang and composer/lyricist Timothy Huang for bringing this to attention.

Alexis Fishman, at first sight, seems like a perfectly average woman. She graduated in 2004 from a performing arts school in Western Australia and went on to pursue a career in the arts, now ‘based permanently in New York’, as per her official website. Her performer’s page is professional, her website is tastefully metropolitan, and the posts on her personal Facebook give no indication of strange or deviant social behavior. She is, in essence, the typical young woman trying to make a name for herself in the performing arts industry. Why, then, has she created a Facebook profile dedicated solely to the enthusiastic spread of what amounts to racist garbage? Internet, meet Arexis Fongman.

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